July 12, 2033.
I hate this city.  I hate this phone.
What little of the night sky that remains unobscured by megascrapers is awash with the fireworks of targeted neural-net advertising.  It?s 2:30 in the morning and I?m on the hair of the dog for what seems like the seventh day in a row; I?ve got dataflies whirring and buzzing above my head, I?ve got condom ads beamed into my bloodshot eyeballs, and this ridiculous phone with a piece of fruit on it keeps dropping my damn calls.  Keep your Garden of Eden symbolism, I?ll take a working phone, thanks very much.  
In the span of 72 hours I?ve been witness to political scandal, bribery, and murder.  I watched a girl die and I can?t even report it.  There is something evil and wrong happening in this city, none of which I am able to capture and expose thanks to the fact that I can?t record it in high definition; even if I could it?s a moot point with inferior processing power.  I saw the money change grimy hands and all I?ve got to show for it is vague, grainy pictures.  I guess those extra three megapixels really do make a difference.
These streets wouldn?t be fit for the most diseased cockroach.  I?d take an autocab--it?s quick, it?s convenient, and you don?t get fleeced by hacks with feet made of feathers instead of lead--but I can?t, because this phone doesn?t have anything resembling a respectable nav system to load into the cab?s autopilot.  At least if I had an HDMI jack I could port out to the monitor.  And so I walk.
A mugger jumps out of the alley, demanding the usual.  I can see the implants just under his skin: he?s a drugged-up tech-head, and he smells like he just shat a dead opossum.  I realize I?m unarmed.  Great.  I pull my I.D.?s out of my wallet and toss it to him.  Congratulations, jerk-off, you?re six dollars richer.  He demands the phone in a craze, and I don?t even hesitate to fork it over.  If it was bigger I probably could have beaten him into a coma with it.  I walk on with a mild sense of satisfaction.  I hated that phone.  
Last time I ever buy anything from some creeper in a black mock-turtleneck.  Tonight, I dream of robot ninjas.